Due Reconsideration
by Ell Bee Someone Else Now
Summary: Prowl decides that there is much more to be considered in one's choices than logic. Eventually.
1. Chapter 1

The idea for this fic came from a review left for "Beginnings" by femme4jack. Then, for "Meet Me in the Middle," Botosphere's Eowyn77 left another iteration of it: "I'd like to see a fic wherein Jazz convinces Prowl to leave the 'cons and join the 'bots."

I did not quite fulfill every bit of that request. I tried: but the Muse ran away with the story and refused to let me have it back until I was willing to tell it her way (the same thing happened with "Campaigns Pelliquum and Jazz"). I truly hope this is close enough. If not ... bunnies lurk, the thought has been typed and saved, and named. Fear not. We'll get there.

Another in the "Jazz Meets Prowl for the First Time" series, with "Dancer from the Dance," "Rock and a Hard Place," "Beginnings," and "Meet Me in the Middle."

Now that I've spoiled the ending for you, let's see if you like the journey to it.

Not mine, not for profit.

* * *

><p>Prowl sat down in the Enforcers' mess with his morning energon and performed the Cybertronian equivalent of opening the morning paper: he accessed the latest news files.<p>

It was the first time in five orn that he had been able to do so. Many Enforcers had resigned and departed Praxus in the long siege the Decepticons had laid to the city, and those left behind pulled double and occasionally treble shifts. Prowl, whose self-discipline was already a legend among his fellows, had worked five straight shifts before sleeping through most of two orn, his regularly-scheduled orns off. He was, in fact, still tired.

Those who left had enlisted either with the Autobots, troops sustaining the government, or Decepticons, to whom Prowl privately applied the label "the ones who called the Senate on its bovine-equivalent exhaust fumes."

Privately, because politics had become such a loaded subject that he avoided all discussions thereof, even with his close friends. He'd seen fistfights break out among his superior officers over Cybertronian politics.

Of late, he mused, perusing the latest news, it seemed that Optimus Prime had realized that some flaws in the Senate's thinking existed. He hadn't done anything about that yet beyond debating them.

Primes were beings above and beyond the ken of the average Cybertronian, in which group Prowl placed himself without hesitation. He didn't know what drove the mech, could not, but when this Prime debated the Senate over several matters, large and small, Prowl found himself in agreement with the Autobot leader's thinking.

Too bad he still wasn't _doing_ anything about his difference of opinion with them. This was a very young Prime, however; Prowl had hopes he would buck up and bring the Senate to heel.

It was also true that the Senators were far from unanimous in their own thinking. One member had already resigned, a mech named Ratchet, who had taken medic's training and joined the Autobots.

It remained no part of the Enforcer's job to play politics. It was an Enforcer's job to apprehend those engaged in law-breaking, and to do so without fear or favor, as the humans would put it several thousands of millennia hence. Prowl had, and would again, arrest drunken Autobots and drunken Decepticons; he would break up armed and unarmed confrontations between the 'bots and the 'cons when they occurred on the streets of Praxus, and again use lethal force against either side if he thought it necessary to safeguard his fellow citizens.

To be fair, though, it was the 'cons and not the 'bots who most often had to be offlined.

He would, in short, enforce the laws of Praxus. Without favor, and if he experienced fear, he would put it aside. Prowl closed the news files, and got to his feet.

A loud, and familiar, voice sounded outside the mess; someone who knew Prowl well might have seen him smile. A large green mech with gray markings, diagonal slash ending in a ball, entered in the laughing center of a group of Enforcers.

The mech's optics glowed when he saw Prowl. "Hey! Sunshine! How ya doin'?" he said, and offered his forearm in the Enforcer shake.

Prowl clasped the warm plating. "Clade. I'm fine. Yourself?"

"Doin' okay, thanks," Escalade said, returning the clasp. "'S it true that you worked five straight shifts?"

"Yes. Slept through my orns off."

"Look, come over to my place next time you have an orn off, huh? We haven't played redfletch or even Embargo in too long."

"You still play Embargo? We grew up on that."

"'S the simplest games that require the best strategy."

Prowl found himself smiling. "Sure. I'll ping you."

"Be sure you do it, okay? I'll get some rust sticks laid in."

"I'll bring the mid-grade."

"Deal. See ya!"

The group swept Prowl's oldest friend away, and he moved toward the door, but not before he heard someone in the group say, "What do you see in that grind, Clade?"

Clade said, "We've been friends a long, long time, and I wouldn't trade Prowl for - "

The door shut behind Prowl, and he never did learn what his equivalent commodity was.

LATER THAT SAME ORN

"You would, you know, be working against your former colleagues. Sometimes, you would be the direct cause of their deaths."

"Ain't like any of 'em are my friends," the young mech said. "You don't have friends in th' ranks if you're a 'con, nobody you trust, only somebots you hate less'n most of the others."

He was not that much older than the very young, and very large, mech he sat across from. A slightly smaller, much older mech sat beside Optimus, the newest Prime, not at all relaxed, his shoulder cannons charged.

The applicant/prisoner smiled at both Ironhide and Optimus. Optimus found himself returning the smile. Still ... "You do understand that it would be a while before you could be sent on missions. We'll ask you to fight with us as a frontliner, then, once we're sure of your loyalty, send you to Special Operations."

"I got no problem with that," the young 'con, whose name was Jazz, said. "In fact, I wuz gonna volunteer t'be hacked. Only that way can we both be sure Soundwave didn't leave somethin' in my processor I ain't aware of."

Optimus cocked an optic ridge in Jazz' direction. "Do you have any reason to believe that's been done to you?"

"Nah," said Jazz. "I don't think he knows I exist, outside'a the mind-read he gives every new recruit."

"I ... see," said Optimus, who honestly didn't know what to make of this mech, or for that matter the fact that Soundwave hacked all the new recruits. "Well, I'll comm Ratchet, and we'll get that underway. You'll wait for him in the brig, I think."

"I think so too," said Ironhide, getting up. "C'mon, 'con. I'll take you back."

On the way through the Prime's quarters and offices, Jazz said to Ironhide, "Ain't you the 'Ironhide' who was a 'con too, for a while at least?"

"Yeah. I quit 'cause Megatron's crazy. Why'd you?"

"Pretty much the same reason," said the small black-and-white mech. They'd reached the cell in the brig from which Ironhide had fetched him earlier that morning. "Here," Jazz said, handing the weapons specialist the cuffs. "Think you might want these."

He entered his cell, pulled the door to behind him, sat on the bunk, and smiled at Ironhide. Who looked back and forth from him to the cuffs a couple of times, then shrugged, sent the pulse that locked the door, and left the cell area.

A HALF-JOOR LATER

"You might wanna be a little cautious around this'n," Ironhide said to Ratchet.

They were watching The Jazz Show on the brig monitors. Nothing much was happening at the moment; the main character was sitting on his bunk, one knee up and his servos clasped around his ankle, staring at nothing.

"Oh?" Ratchet said. "Why's that?"

"He can get outta a pair of stasis cuffs."

Ratchet smiled. "Not if he's offline, he can't," he said.

The medic entered the brig, Ironhide beside him.

"Morning," he said to his putative patient, stopping in front of the cell door. "I'm Ratchet, and you volunteered to be hacked."

"Hiya," said the prisoner, rising. "I'm Jazz, and yeah, I did."

Ratchet removed a pistol-handled tool from his bag while Ironhide was getting the stasis cuffs out, and fired it at the young mech, who dropped back onto his berth, completely offline.

Ironhide looked at Ratchet. The medic said, "What? You said he could get out of stasis cuffs," and entered his patient's cell.

FOUR JOOR AFTER THAT

Ratchet knocked on Optimus' door, but didn't enter, only put his helm around the frame. "He's clean," he said. "The one designated 'Jazz'."

"That was fast," Optimus said, looking at his CMO somewhat askance and not quite asking why.

"I took him off-line to hack him. Ironhide said he could get out of a pair of stasis cuffs, and so I figured why not."

"He fight you?"

"Didn't give 'im the chance. We introduced ourselves and I zapped him without warning him first."

Optimus' optic ridges elevated. "I assume you had a reason to do so?"

"Sure. After that, if he stays with us, it's because he _really_ wants to be here. Gotta go; see you later."

Optimus sighed as Ratchet's upper portion disappeared from his doorway.

TWO DECAORN LATER

Prowl ambled in off the street after two back-to-back shifts, and dialed up two cubes of energon. The rule was, you were entitled to as many cubes as you had stood shifts.

Clade, on his way out the door, waved from across the room, looking as tired as Prowl felt.

He sat down, sighed, and put his pedes up on the chair across from his own. Bliss.

His shifts had been ... odd. There was continuous riot in the streets. He hadn't seen a femme or a sparkling for those joor he'd been on duty - nor, come to think of it, any of the congregation of the Negotiably Affectionate, either, and that was a very bad sign. If they weren't out Negotiating, the street was truly dangerous.

The first cube tasted surreally good. He'd wait a few minutes to open the second.

Prowl's immediate supervisor, Loyale, came in and dialed up a cube. Prowl stood, pedes complaining, as protocol demanded; but Loyale arched an optic ridge at him, said, "Prowl. Didn't you just come in off two back-to-backs?"

"Yes, sir." This though Loyale was a femme; it was the standard address for a superior.

"Then sit down, mech. I'll take your report verbally. You've been doing a great deal for us, Prowl. A great deal for Praxians, as well."

"Thank you, sir," he said, reseating himself. He wanted to hook a chair closer and put his feet back up, but, being Prowl, he didn't.

Loyale sat opposite him. "Before you give me your report, aren't you sitting the sergeants' exam next week?"

"Yes sir. Three orn from now."

"I have no doubt you'll pass it," she said, twiddling her cube between her fingers, "but I am going to waive the necessity of a year at rank, and ask you to take the sergeant-at-arms examination at the same time."

"Sir. I'm flattered."

"So you should be, mech. I have never before allowed anyone to take both those tests simultaneously. But it's ... difficult ... out on the streets right now, and if any of us can skip a grade, it's you." Loyale's gray optics peered into his. "Rumor has it that you've requested leave for an upgrade installation."

"Yes, sir. A battle computer, sir."

"A battle computer."

"Yes, sir. It provides better tactical information and some upgrades that aren't available to an Enforcer-level computer. I'll be gone for two orns, one for the upgrade, and one to perform the integration tasks."

"I see." She had recourse to her cube. Prowl, puzzled, did the same.

"Prowl," Loyale said, as if making up her mind to something, "will you take the lieutenant's exam as well? All three, the same orn?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Yes, sir."

"When you come back from your upgrade, you'll be working in the office. I have almost no tactical officers left. Believe me, Prowl, if you're worried about protecting the citizens of Praxus, you'll do a lot more for them in the Center than any single patrol officer can."

"Yes, sir. Thank you for clarifying that for me. I was a bit worried about it."

"Sure. Shall we get that report out of the way, so you can sign off and go home?"

"Thank you, sir. I'd appreciate that."

"Whenever you're ready, then."

TWENTY-TWO BREEM LATER

"... I saw two civilians go down. A new Autobot recruit, to judge from the shine on his insignia, pulled them to safety, then attempted to rejoin his surviving teammates. The last of the Decepticons shot him, then was killed by the other Autobots. The Autobots refused to surrender their wounded comrade to my authority, and left, saying that they would provide medical care. As the riot had moved out of my patrol area and my shift had ended, I chose to return to the Center. End of report."

"How many Autobots were there?"

"I counted fourteen to start with. Nine were still standing by the time the new one went down."

"And how many Decepticons?"

"Twenty-nine when I first counted."

"Sheesh," said Loyale. "Two to one, and they still beat the 'cons. You, Prowl, go home, rest, recharge. You have tomorrow off. Waste it well."

"Yes, sir," Prowl said, intending to do no such thing. The family home needed some repair, his sparker had asked for help, and he was a dutiful son.

FOURTEEN BREEM AFTER PROWL LEFT THE CENTER

Ratchet had triage down flat. The newest recruit, still out like a light, had not been in urgent need of medical attention, so he got to wait for his. The bleeders and flailers, as Ratchet thought of them to keep his distance and his sanity, were treated and recovering. He ran tests on the newbie swiftly, and what they told him was that while Jazz had in fact been hit with a bullet, he was out cold because he'd fallen hard on his processor.

As for the rest of the damage, he'd mostly self-heal on his own. Ratchet cleaned the wound, dug out the shot, repaired the lines, and left his patient sleeping it off, the crinkle of pain gone from his brow.

He approached the twins. "You been teachin' the new guy your bad habits?"

The red twin grinned, and his yellow brother, sitting beside him, did the same. "Haven't known him long enough to teach him to distill, Ratch," Sideswipe said.

"No, I mean your Pit-stupid 'hero' gig. You're teachin' him to be a hero, ain'tcha?"

"_Big_ damn' hero, Ratch," said Sideswipe with a grin, thus beating Joss Whedon's _Firefly_ to the punch by several million years.

Ratchet sighed. "Sideswipe. Sunstreaker. You see all this stuff in here, all this equipment, all my closets stuffed full of supplies? You see all that? That's here because it's my job to make sure that all the big damn' heroes get home at the end of the war. Getting killed isn't heroic. It's a waste. It's a waste of your life, it's a waste of the time I spent patching you up every orn before you catch it. And," said Ratchet, grabbing the startled Sideswipe by the collar fairing and pulling him up off berth, nose-to-noseplate with Ratchet, "while I won't tell you what to do with your life, _it pisses me off_ when my work goes to waste. So don't do the big damn' hero stuff. Because if you get killed I will follow you to the Pit just to chew your afts! Clear?"

He let go of Sideswipe, who fell back on his elbows and just about successfully hid the resulting wince. "Um, yeah, Ratch."

"I do not want 'um, yeah, Ratch' in response to that! I am the _Chief Medical Officer_ of this circus of Optimus Prime's, and I want 'Sir, yes, sir!'"

"Sir yes sir!" they both said, if not quite in unison, maybe with a giggle in there somewhere, but wisely keeping its head down.

"Good! Now you," Ratchet said, turning to Sunstreaker, "run along and get some energon for yourself. Then bring some back for the big boy, here."

Sunstreaker left. Ratchet turned back to Sideswipe, and began turning off pain sensors here and there to begin his work.

Sideswipe, unnervingly, never protested not being put offline, and appeared to watch Ratchet's work with a detached sort of interest. Must be his experience in Kaon, mused Ratchet, and was gentler than his rant might have signified.

Absorbed in his work, Ratchet heard Sunstreaker return, but only realized that Jazz was online again when Sunstreaker began to talk to the kid.

He finished up with Sideswipe, said, "You need the lecture about not toughing out feelin' bad tomorrow?"

"No, I think I got it down pretty good," Sideswipe said. "When am I back on duty?"

"Berth rest tomorrow, you can spar the next orn, back on light duty the orn after that, and then you're for the high jump again. If you can't nap tomorrow for pain, you comm me. Okay?"

"Thanks, Ratch." The tall frontliner slid off the berth, collected his brother, and left.

Ratchet went to see the newbie. "You're awake a little sooner than I thought you might be. How are you feeling?"

"Bit sore," Jazz said, flexing his wrists, "an' I got a awful processor ache."

"Yeah. You fell on it pretty hard. Long's we're fighting in the cities, your processor suspension could use some beefing up. Take me about a joor to do it, and I could do it the orn after tomorrow. You game?"

The new recruit looked startled. "No mods until I'm not a probie anymore," he offered, not in argument, just sayin'.

Ratchet shrugged. "They told me you got hurt rescuing some civilians. If you're willing to do that, I'll go to bat with Optimus so you can get the mod. You hear what I said to the twins about not bein' a big damn' hero?"

Jazz grinned. "Most of it."

"Goes for you too. Now, where does it hurt? Where you've got your hand on your chest? See, the thing is with an impact injury like you got, I can't do much for the pain. I can put you offline so that you don't suffer, but if you get into trouble, having pain meds on board will make that trouble harder to isolate and resolve. So what's your pleasure? Online and in discomfort, or asleep for the next orn?"

"Th' whole orn? Tell you what, it ain't all that bad. If I can get a datapad from my quarters, I'll be fine just readin' until I recharge, an' then - "

"Look," Ratchet said, "maybe I didn't make myself clear. You have what's right next door to a processor injury, okay? You'll be staying on that berth tonight, doing as little as possible, and resting your optics. You might be bored, but that way you'll recover a lot faster. You start reading and watching Teletraan tonight, I can guarantee the processor ache won't go away for three orns. Your choice."

Jazz chose well, or perhaps was nagged into same, and was soundly in recharge long before Ratchet began to make his notes for the day. Not long after that, the tall shadow of the Prime fell across Ratchet's desk.

"Pour one for both of us," the medic said, not raising his head, "and I'll be with you in a minute."

The cabinet opened and closed, and two cubes impacted the table. The cork went pop, but there was no clink of bottle to cube; Ratchet always wondered how the Prime managed to do that. He finished the notes, and signed off, rubbing his optics.

"Another orn without fatalities," the Prime said, and touched his glass to Ratchet's.

"Yep. Always good."

"Indeed. Both Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's reports are clear that Jazz put himself at risk to rescue civilians. I'm tempted to end his probationary period early because of that."

"If you do, I can give him the mods that will prevent the kind of processor injury that he's in here overnight for."

"All right. Start the work as soon as you can. I'll sign off on it in the morning." Optimus drained his cube, and stood. "See you next battle, Ratchet."

"Sure," said his Chief Medical Officer, and drained his good-night cube.

THE NEXT DECAORN

Hook flipped through his patient's work-ups and test results, cracked his knuckles, and was ready to go.

"You're sure you're prepared to fly solo?"

"Yeah. I did the holographic surgery and scored 97 percent."

"Okay," said Checkup, the charity medic-in-residence here. "Comm me if you need to."

"Will do," Hook said, although he knew he wouldn't, and went to his patient's berth.

Prowl. An Enforcer. Newly promoted to lieutenant. Offline now, in preparation for the installation, but a good-looking mech if you liked them a little cool and sleek, Hook thought. And of course a Praxian door-wing model was styled for that to begin with.

Checkup's clinic had made the third-lowest bid to do Prowl's installation, but Checkup himself had a good reputation: this although he was not a neurosurgeon. Prowl, on a patrol-level Enforcer's salary, couldn't afford a neurosurgeon, or anyway had not saved up sufficient to consult one.

Prowl also knew of the good work this clinic did on the streets. He hadn't checked where its money came from; that, unfortunately, was mostly Megatron.

Hook was taking all the advanced battlefield medic courses he could from Checkup, Megatron paid for it, and gave the clinic enough support to quiet Checkup's conscience. The Decepticons also paid quite well for his services when needed, as the one thing the 'cons didn't have was the ability to interest medics in signing up.

Hook popped Prowl's chestplate, revealing his processor and, of course, his spark. He always took a moment to observe the spark, perhaps even to play with it a bit if the color amused him. Prowl was fortunate in that his silvery-green job did not; such "play" inevitably left the spark-bearer with a hideous crush on Hook. Which pleased the Decepticon, and was sometimes ... rewarding.

Checkup, though, Hook thought, removing more of the processor shielding, him they had on the horns of a dilemma. He didn't want to teach Hook the more delicate and tricky procedures, because he had accurately estimated Hook to be more of an engineer, Hook's actual training, than anymech who was as compassionate as Checkup thought the practice of medicine required. Hook liked getting things right, and had at least twice handed a patient back to Checkup when the outcome couldn't be perfected.

However, Checkup's clinic needed the funds. He had, as Megatron requested, been schooling Hook in making repairs and upgrades to the processor. Checkup had no idea that Hook would pass this teaching along to both Soundwave and Barricade, per Megatron's instructions: the one to further his telepathic doo-wah, the other to improve his interrogation techniques.

Checkup had no idea that Megatron could and would (and had) sanction the permanent offlining of anymech with a complex processor injury. Megatron said that he was waging a war, not running a convalescent ward. Anymech whose prognosis did not include return to battle within a quarter-vorn was for the high jump.

Nor had Checkup any idea that Hook, carefully lowering the sterilized battle computer into place, and with equal care fastening the connections, would leave part of the work he was presently embarked upon undone, and this quite deliberately.

In preparing the battle computer yesterorn, he had clipped several of the leads within the connectors. A gap too large to be jumped by neural transmissions now existed between the ethical component and the rest of Prowl's processor.

Megatron planned to make all of the Praxian Enforcers an offer they would be foolish to refuse, and Megatron didn't want anyone with ethics in his ranks.

Hook finished the job with telltale quickness thereby. He spent a few minutes doing the first of the check-work tasks with Prowl, who wouldn't be wakened until tomorrow: recharge was the optimal state for the new connections to form.

Or not to form, Hook thought, wheeling his patient along to the recovery room. Megatron would be pleased.

CHECKUP'S CLINIC, NEXT ORN

"Okay now, while you're looking at me, bring your fingers into contact with your thumbs, going from index to pinky, then back. Do that with both servos simultaneously ... now in reverse."

"Feels like a sparkling game," Prowl said.

Checkup smiled. "A lot of sparkling games are in fact useful for teaching coordination."

"Why did you test the gross motor coordination first?"

"You go from the gross to the fine because fine motor coordination requires more processing power than the gross. That's why children are sometimes clumsy after their upgrades. – So the last task," Checkup said, "is to sign your chop at the bottom of my datapad, to indicate that the work's been done. I'll compare it with the earlier signature you gave me for permission to do this work, and if it's substantially identical, you're good to go."

Prowl signed. Checkup pulled a datapad from his subspace, set it beside the one Prowl had just signed, and turned them both upside down. Prowl's optic ridges rose.

"This way," Checkup said, a smile ghosting about the corners of his lip plates, "I can look at the design, if you will, and not simply read the signatures. I don't see anything here that time won't take care of - the flattened loops, all flattened in the same area, are congruent with new upgrades. So you're outta here. You won't be patrolling for at least a couple of orns, though, right?"

"I no longer patrol at all," Prowl said. "I spend my orns in the Center."

"Oh? Well, good, then," Checkup said. "Take it easy for another two orns. You have this orn off, correct?"

"This and tomorrow, yes."

"Good." Checkup shook his servo. "Have a nice life, Prowl."

The flattened loops, all flattened in the same area, were indicative of the ethical module not being connected. But Checkup, who was not a neurosurgeon, wasn't aware of that, and thus didn't tell Prowl, who couldn't afford a neurosurgeon.


	2. Chapter 2

I envision the card game of "redfletch" as being a cross between bridge and mah-jongg, played with a five-suit deck somewhat like Tarot in that one of the suits always trumps all of the others: even the one that is "declared" for the hand.

I stole the "tek" as a unit of measure from Peacewish's _These Games We Play_. You're not reading that? Go read that! It's good stuff!

* * *

><p>"Simfur fell last night," Escalade said, dealing out a hand of redfletch.<p>

"I read some of the articles." Prowl sorted his cards. "I wonder how the religious college is doing."

"Last I heard, the 'bots razed it to the ground after escorting the priests and staff out. I bid eight octagons."

"That's ... pretty strange. Four fletches."

"They said 'cons were hiding in it. Have you ever been inside? I haven't, but a friend of mine named Arcee has. She says they could have, easily, place was a labyrinth. They gave new novices a map when they enrolled."

Escalade slid out a seven of squares, and Prowl smiled. He'd recently re-read the entirety of Oil's _The Rules and Strategies of Redfletch_, and with the battle computer on board, at last it made sense. He tossed a two of squares, and the dummy hand played a four of octagons. "Wonder if they let them bring out any of the relics."

"No. Just got the priests out and bombed the place to the Pit."

"It'll come here, you know." Prowl met Escalade's ten of squares with the knight, and the dummy contributed a six of octagons.

"It's already here," Escalade said, meeting Prowl's first foray into fletches with a deuce.

The dummy hand couldn't beat Prowl's card, and he led another fletch. "I know the reports are indicative of more unrest. Is it really that bad?" The dummy hand won with a Halls card.

"I know you don't patrol anymore, but haven't you read any of the reports from the gates?"

Prowl took the next trick. "I look them over for signs of unrest, but that's all."

"You're doing double and triple shifts again, aren't you?"

"Yes. Since I don't patrol, I can stand up to six at a time, and - "

"Prowl! Six!"

Prowl shrugged at his oldest friend. "It's needed. You know how few of us have elected to stay."

"There's next to no one, Enforcer or civilian, left in Praxus. The streets are full of Autobots and Decepticons and old mecha and femme who lack the ability to leave. It's turning into a slaughterhouse, Prowl."

"I'll ask Loyale if I can go on patrol the shift after next. Being in the Center you don't get ... the flavor, I guess. I know there's an un-Primusly amount of unrest in the streets."

"All the participants wear one insignia or the other," Escalade said. "No civilians."

"I really do need to go on patrol," Prowl said.

"Be prepared for it to be ugly when you do," Escalade said, and took a trick Prowl had really been counting on.

THE NEXT ORN

"Jazz," said Optimus Prime, "a moment of your time, please."

"Yes, sir," said the young mech, and followed the Prime into his office.

"Just 'Optimus,' please. Shut the door," the Prime said, and sat down, gesturing Jazz to the seat on the other side of his desk. "When we took Simfur, you disobeyed orders to confine rescue efforts to the students and staff at the religious institute."

"Yes, si - Optimus, I did."

"Why?" said Optimus, sitting back, and clasping his hands in front of him.

Jazz looked at him, then said, "My carrier's brother is a priest. I've learned, through conversations with him, that relics're irreplaceable. Under my command, my squad retrieved everything we could lay our hands on. Twasn't much, but it was all we could get out in th' time we had."

"I see," said Optimus. He sighed. Jazz was rarely any trouble, and when he was, it turned out to be for doing too good a job ... as at present. "Did that interfere at all with your other assignments?"

"No. Wish we'd had more time, but we didn't, an' I wasn't about t' let us be late to our rendezvous."

"What would have happened were you met with the need to detour?"

"Well, si - Optimus, we was five breem ahead of schedule. I held us a turnin' away from our rendezvous point, dispersed in th' crowd so that no one would remark on us bein' a collection of 'bots all in one place."

Optimus said, "I see." He steepled his fingers and thought for solid three breem, in part to give any guilty consciences in the room time to speak up, and then raised his head to say, "Thank you, Jazz."

When the door shut behind the young Autobot, Optimus commed Jazz' second on this mission, and confirmed that he had in fact done what he said. Then he commed Jazz' commanding officer, and promoted Jazz to full operative.

THE NEXT ORN

"Put your insignia of rank into your subspace," Loyale said. "I've learned over the years that the insignia's a great way to attract a lot of petty complaints. While two patrolmecha, out on foot, that's hardly remarkable." She handed Prowl a Grade Three chevron, with adhesive on its back. She herself wore Grade Two on the left arm, indicating a probationer. Prowl flushed; two probationers were never sent out to patrol together, so he had to put his on the right arm, indicating that he was the senior of the two.

Loyale caught his eye, and grinned, sensing his discomfort. "People also talk more easily to the junior member of the patrol, Prowl," she said. "You'll have to remember not to call me 'sir.'

"Yes, sir - oh, _snap_," said Prowl. Loyale grinned.

The street around the Center was deserted, and Prowl remarked on it. "One way to look at that piece of data," said Loyale, falling easily into proceeding, an easy, ground-covering gait that also gave the officer time to look around, "is that the rioters have enough respect for us not to put themselves in our faces."

"We still have a lot of empty cells."

"A contributing factor," Loyale said with a nod.

They heard the Seekers before they saw them. A trine came in at killing speed, the two outermost members dropping bombs, the central flyer emitting a wide-range null-ray. There were cries from below, the sounds of explosion, and a rising streamer of smoke.

Prowl and Loyale looked at one another, transformed, and went in the direction of the trouble, sirens wailing.

The null-ray, which Enforcers disdained as they were designed to injure, had been used on a large crowd, most of whom wore Autobot insignia, electric blue scarves, or paint in the same shade, the Autobot color. Most were down and out cold or dead, a few on their hands and knees, or getting unsteadily to their pedes.

Worse yet, Prowl recognized the Lord Mayor of Praxus, and several members of the city's council, among the fallen, although they wore neither insignia nor colors. One councilfemme was curled up, groaning, around the City Seal, which anybot could use as a frank; immediately, the two Enforcers moved to recover it.

City Hall was a mess. The eastern ell was in ruins, the western badly damaged, and the center, the oldest part of the structure, had been the scene of hand-to-hand fighting. Discarded armor and greying frames, of both factions, lay where fallen.

The Lord Mayor proved to be dead. Prowl carried the councilfemme, and Loyale the City Seal, into the central section. They found a small, pipe-crossed room kitted out for first aid.

"I've got some first-aid skills," Loyale said. "Go see if anyone else survived."

Prowl returned to the scene of the carnage. The balance of the Council were dead as well, but he carried three downed Autobots into the center of the building, and was returning for a fourth run, when a small black-and-white mech slammed him up against a wall, arm across his throat.

The attack had been so swift, and so fierce, that Prowl never saw it coming. He stilled himself, and forced his servos to let go of the others' wrists.

"Where are you takin' em?" snarled the mech.

"Center area of the building has a small first-aid station. You'll find my partner there, trying to help these people. Who the Pit are you?"

"Autobot, designation Jazz. Why are the Enforcers here?"

"We saw the airstrike."

"It was the 'cons?"

"Of course it was the 'cons! We don't use _null-rays_ on our own people!"

Prowl was immediately embarrassed by this outburst, but instead of saying something truly humiliating like, "Now calm down," the other mech said only, "No, you don't, do ya?" in a thoughtful voice. He said aloud, for Prowl's benefit, "Ratchet? Jazz here. We got casualties, our own and civilian. I'm sendin' out a Praxus Enforcer to c'lect th' wounded, and I'm goin' in t' see if I can help with th' ones inside City Hall."

Prowl, of course, couldn't hear the response to the comm, but he was already heading out.

He returned to the small first-aid room with another crumpled burden and saw Jazz, a strange look on his face, standing over Loyale, a Decepticon blade lying by her side.

Prowl very carefully laid down the injured Autobot, then went to Loyale. She was dead, a knife wound to the spark chamber; she had some dents and a few paint transfers, mostly black.

Prowl surged up like a wave and grabbed Jazz' servo, smashing his wrist against the wall, and powering Jazz back against it with his forearm across the other's throat. "What the Pit!" he snarled, his rage a red-and-black wall towering over his training, ready to fall. "You kill her here, and you don't even have the decency to hide the blade?"

"I didn't kill her," Jazz croaked. He didn't cling to Prowl's forearm, as most mecha would in that situation; his free servo by his side, he repeated, "I didn't kill her. She was dead when I got here. You won't find my paint transfer on that knife."

Prowl snorted, got out the stasis cuffs, and fastened the Autobot to one of the pipes in the room. "We'll certainly check that out, and you too." He commed on Center's frequency, ::_Officer down, officer down. Center wing of City Hall. I repeat, officer down, suspect in custody._::

A voice answered, ::_Your message received, timed 18:42:07. Personnel dispatched._::

Then, because there was nothing else to do, he continued his search for survivors.

The large green ambulance beat the Incident Scene Analysis team to Prowl by several minutes. He had found no further living victims when the vehicle arrived, sirens wailing. The mech transformed, saying only, "Where are they? There aren't any more survivors; I scanned on the way in."

When they arrived, they found Jazz, free, calmly clipping and replacing lines in the abdomen of a mech who was still bleeding. Prowl's browplates drew down and together; Jazz, glancing up, interpreted his glare correctly, but said only, "Sorry, but I didn't think you'd tell me not ta help when I could," and stayed at his work. The green mech joined him, saying to Prowl, "Stand guard, will you? There could still be 'cons in this area."

The ISA team arrived just then, along with the officers assigned to the scene, and the comfort of routine closed in over Prowl's head.

FIFTY BREEM LATER

Jazz left the med bay in its usual scene of Ratchet-induced chaos. The Autobots were fortunate in that none of their personnel had died, although many of their supporters had; the city government of Praxus wasn't so lucky, as the Mayor and most of the council had been killed. And the Decepticons were now so numerous that Jazz, although no tactician, knew his side would lose the city shortly.

_Wonder what'll be next for that Enforcer_, he thought, and got a cube. Praxian doorwing models had always revved him, for some reason. He'd never told any of his teammates how much time he spent ... distracted ... while he was assigned to Praxus. And that was a nice-looking mech.

Still, you could do a lot better, he mused, for a first date.

The cube stung the area of his palm where the Enforcer ISA team had taken a scraping, and he grimaced.

TWO BREEM AFTER THAT

It isn't pleasant to have a paint scraping taken from the palm of one's servo, but ISA needed it for transfer analysis. Prowl grimaced just as Jazz had, and held his servo steady.

The technician nodded, put the chip in a jar, and had Prowl chop-stamp it, identifying it as his own beyond doubt.

An Enforcer whom Prowl had never met before said, "Lieutenant Prowl? Why are you out of uniform?"

"Sir," he said to this one, two grades above him, "Captain Loyale suggested we patrol with the lower-ranking insignia. She said that people would be more willing to talk to us if we weren't a lieutenant and a captain, sir."

"You intended to go on foot patrol?"

"Yes, sir. We saw the strike take place, and abandoned our plans."

"Who was it?"

"A trio of Seekers, sir. Too far away to see the colors."

"Given the victims, probably 'cons. And the Autobots do their best to leave buildings standing." He made notes on a datapad, then raised his head to look Prowl in the optics. "I think you know how this works, lieutenant. I'll need your weapon and your insignia, and you're stood down until we know what went on here."

"Sir."

Later that orn, the highest-ranking surviving city member, an adjutant to one of the council members, surrendered Praxus to the Decepticons. As he had no actual power to do so, fighting continued.

ONE DECAORN LATER

Prowl returned to duty.

He was not precisely "rested and refreshed." He had attended the rite for Loyale, and endured the stares of her family and friends, the pointed fingers, the whispered "But isn't he - "

Most of his administrative leave had been filled up with recharge. He'd been standing multiple shifts and was tired clear to his struts. The balance went to attempting to persuade his parents that it was wisest to leave Praxus.

His sparker, an Enforcer two levels senior to Prowl, finally ordered his adult sparkling to leave the subject. Ordered him not as a family member, but as an Enforcer to whom he was senior.

"But - "

"Prowl. Enough. If the city falls, it falls. Until it falls, I'm going to work, and I know you are too."

"And after it falls? You know what the Autobots have done in all the cities that've fallen so far, don't you?"

"What I hear is that they've enforced martial law."

They were, at the time, in Prowl's carrier's and sparker's neat, sunlight living space. It wasn't the house Prowl had reached his adult upgrade in; that home had, his carrier said, been worn out by four sparklings. His genitors had acquired this home, closer to his sparker's work and very near his carrier's, and sold the childhood home to Prowl's eldest sibling. Prowl had not, at the time, had savings sufficient for a down payment, and thus had no hope of bidding for it.

"What you hear is not complete," Prowl said. "In Simfur, they rounded up the Enforcers, and smelted every one of them. Said that they had illegally surrendered the city to the 'cons."

"But they were corrupt - "

"Now that they're dead, how can we know that? We're dependent on what the Autobots, and the government, choose to tell us. That young Prime doesn't lie, but the government does, and the Senate still has the power to silence him."

Prowl's sparker narrowed his eyes, and tapped his chinplates with one forefinger. "I don't know that the same isn't true of the Decepticons," he said. "Their Communications Officer, after all, he could make you think day was night."

"That's true, but he has to do that one mech or femme at a time. Whereas Optimus Prime - I know you've seen his broadcasts. He can persuade millions with a single word." Prowl sighed, and took his carrier's hand into his own. "Look, don't get caught in the middle, okay? If I feel it's gotten too risky to stay, I'll get a message to you. Please, at least think about leaving if that happens."

"All right," his sparker said. "If you send us a message, we'll think about it."

His carrier commed him with, ::_That's the closest any of you sparklings have ever come to winning an argument with Hardhead._:: But Leewind had said nothing; she never did when her mate and her sparklings disagreed. She squeezed Prowl's servo, once, and let it go.

Now, looking about him, Prowl realized that the Center had changed in feeling tone since he was there last. For one thing, there were far fewer of his fellows about. In fact, he saw almost no one, and the halls, at shift change, should have been very busy, full of mecha and femme bearing insignia, and civilian support staff as well.

In the command center, he was apparently the only mech on duty. There was no one to relieve.

A scan of all the building monitors revealed only four other mecha present: Toolbar and Respond were among the very first Enforcers to begin working the Praxian streets, where Nexus and Brightbolt were the rawest of new recruits. And the equally elderly Direct was, frankly, the stupidest Enforcer Prowl had ever known. He ran the property room with the fierceness only a very limited mech brought to what he _could_ do. That made him useful, in his limited way.

Prowl paged them all to the command center, and got outside his cube of energon.

SIMULTANEOUSLY

Optimus Prime wiped weary servos down his faceplates. "We're about to lose Praxus," he said.

Wheeljack threw up a plan. The 'cons' strongholds, in red, almost encircled the city; there were outcroppings of red pimples all over the city itself as well. Blue areas, their own, were widely scattered, and as they watched, two of the blue lights winked out.

Ratchet rose from the table. "We're about to have incoming wounded."

The others watched him run out the door.

"The Enforcers?" said Mirage.

"They aren't the issue here they have been in other cities. We've got no Enforcers on our payroll, and so far as we can discover, neither have the 'cons. But this is far beyond their ability to cope with. Praxus at this point consists of the old, the Enforcers' families, the 'cons, and our forces."

"And two hundred breem ago," said Perceptor, functioning today as Communications Officer, "the 'cons took over the communications center in Praxus, and begin broadcasting on the Enforcers' network, offering sanctuary outside the west gate for all Enforcers and their families."

SIMULTANEOUSLY, WEST GATE OF PRAXUS

"Your insignia, please," the pleasant young Decepticon said.

Prowl's sparker removed it from his arm, and handed it over.

"And yours," the 'con said to Leewind.

"I'm not an Enforcer," she said. "We've been bonded for - "

"I see," interrupted the 'con, still pleasant as milk. "Have you your bonding certificate?"

Wordlessly, she unsubspaced it.

The document was read from beginning to end and the seal fingered, to see if it was truly authentic. Then the 'con smiled, and handed it back. "Thank you," he said. "This seems to be quite in order. If you'll wait here for just a moment, we'll get the process started for you."

He left the minuscule office, barely big enough for three chairs and a stunted desk. The door clicked into its locked position behind him, and the ventilation system changed its noise slightly.

"I truly hope we're doing the right thing," Leewind said.

Hardhead shrugged. "We got the message from Prowl, and two minutes later the 'cons started their broadcast," he said. "If it's not the right thing, that's the Pit of a coincidence." He yawned widely.

Leewind felt suddenly very relaxed, which puzzled her: she'd been terrified to come here, to place herself into the 'cons hands.

OPTIMUS PRIME'S TENT, ON THE MARCH

"Jazz? I didn't expect you back so soon."

"Bad news, Optimus. I was ordered to report straight to you."

"Let's have it, then."

"Th' cons offered Enforcers safe passage outta th' city if they'd come to a particular gate. Once they got there, they took 'em to 'interview rooms' where they killed 'em and took th' bodies to smelt." The small Special Operative paused. "'Long with all them deaths, it means that Praxus has no internal defense at all."

CENTER, TWO JOOR AFTER

"Who has been trained in utilizing the comms?"

"I have, sir," said Nexus, one of the newbies.

"You'll be assigned here, then," Prowl said. "The rest of us are going on patrol."

"Patrol, sir? The 'cons control the area," said the other newbie. Brightbolt? Yes.

"Yes, patrol, Brightbolt. There are elderly mecha and femme here, and we are going to give them all the help we can to get out of the city. They'll starve or die in the fighting if we don't."

Then he touched his audial. "The feed says," Prowl related, eyes unfocused, "that the 'cons have taken over the City Hall, and city government no longer exists." He rose from the desk, removed his Enforcer's insignia, threw it down, and said, "I'm leaving. Anyone who wants to come with me may do so."

Toolbar, Respond, Brightbolt, and Nexus stood. "Where are you going, sir?" said one of the newbies.

"South Gate; it's closest. I ... don't know where, after that." He eyed the old mech still sitting at the desk. "What will you do, Direct?"

"I'll be here, sir. I'm goin' to make the 'cons kill me," Direct said with simple pride. "'S all I've ever known how to do, 's be a Praxus Properties mech, sir, and I'm too dumb t'learn much of anything else. I don' think the 'cons need a Properties mech, sir, so I'll die protectin' Praxus."

"A good journey to the Well for you, then," Prowl said, and clasped forearms with the old mech. The others did the same, mumbling some form of "Best wishes for the short time you have left." Courage and common sense very often turn out to be an embarrassing combination.

The four younger ex-Enforcers set a meeting place and time, and left for their homes.

In the end, Prowl, who was there fifteen breem ahead of time, waited for them for a half-joor, then went on ahead alone.

He could not raise Leewind, Hardhead, any of his siblings, or Escalade by comm. He made the assumption that all six were dead, and that he was alone.

Along with the crushing grief, which Prowl simply allowed to wash through him, tears loosening as it went, Prowl felt a burst of liberation. He was no longer answerable to a family tradition, or to the expectations of a community, the Enforcers of Praxus, nor to a childhood friend. If he was alone, he was also, for the first time in his life, free.

He passed few Cybertronians, almost all of whom evaded eye contact, and left him in his solitude, tears flowing down his faceplates.

With the demise of city infrastructure, there were no gate guards, and he passed unhindered out onto the plains around Praxus.

Cybertronian cities are not like human cities; there are no surrounding suburbs. The city stops, and the wild begins, interrupted only by the highways that cross it. Prowl chose one that went west, transformed, set an easy pace, and dropped into a space wherein his processor ran, and he let it, without taking its shifting contents under scrutiny.

TWO DECAORN ORN LATER

Prowl onlined to various warnings of low fuel, and ignored them. He had had the foresight to withdraw his savings in cash before he left Praxus; there would be someone around here who would sell him enough to get to the next seller.

And then what?

He didn't, at the moment, know.

He carefully pulled out of the cave he had found to shelter in, and resumed his journey along a highway which was relatively unscathed by the war: no holes, no blown bridges, no potholes.

In a joor of easy travel, he found a farmhouse. It was small, the building's footprint on the ground tiny, and cramped-looking even from the outside.

It had never been painted. This was not a prosperous farmer's or rancher's spread; this was hardscrabble living.

Carefully, Prowl pulled into the yard, transforming. "Hello?" he shouted. "Anyone here?"

There was a sudden, and suddenly muffled, noise from the house.

Prowl sighed. Whichever of the armies had been through this area had left the inhabitants extremely skittish of a single unmarked mech. He found the energon well, took enough to get him another five hundred tek or so, and left some money on the porch.

The farther he got from Praxus, the more skittish they were. He had nearly offlined before he found someone to sell him energon once he got beyond a day's travel from the city; the first three places he had pulled into held armed mecha warning him off, and their femmes and eldest sparklings behind them, their own weapons charged.

He was now about halfway between the cities of Praxus and Simfur, both in ruins, the casualties of war. He thought to make a small town named Tineres before nightfall; there, he would turn north, and try for Iacon.

Maybe Tineres would have a spot for an Enforcer, or even just a need for a bouncer. Having to travel like this, so soon after he had gutted his savings for the processor upgrade, meant he was on short rations, and worried about making his dwindling supply of cash last. Whichever of the forces he met with first, he thought, he'd join up with, if he couldn't get a civilian job.

By the end of each day, he also had a processor ache. The medic's notes told him that it meant he was overdoing it physically, and to back off his level of exertion a bit.

With the next energon in doubt, though, he couldn't.

Inside his upgraded, overworked processor, new connections were forming. A few met the ethical component, and began to search for a way in.


	3. Chapter 3

"Negotiable Affection" is actually from Terry Pratchett's Discworld, and is therein a street in Ankh-Morpork inhabited by, ah, seamstresses, whose business is never sew-sew.

The "tek" is a term I borrowed from, stole off, or was inspired by, depending, Peacewish's "These Games We Play." Whenever a new chapter of that fic is posted, the noise you hear is my squeal of glee.

* * *

><p>Prowl was running in the red when he found an unclaimed energon well on a little-used road fifty tek east of Iacon.. He drank deeply for the first time in three decaorn.<p>

Fifty tek further, on a flat plain that gave sudden rise to Cybertron's energetic angular mountains, he found a cave to park in and sleep. He pulled in facing forward to see what or who else was there, found nothing, and pulled out again to back in.

He fell asleep to the gentle sound of the acid rain falling fifty feet away, at the cave's mouth.

Setting sunshine in Prowl's optics woke him.

He returned to the energon well to refresh himself, and went in the direction of Iacon; his chronometer said he'd slept away a full orn. The fighting, according to the news reports, continued near the city, but life within was so far undisrupted.

Somewhere in the first fifty tek of his ninety-five tek journey, his battle computer completed its computations.

The Autobots had already lost the war, it told him. Best to become a Decepticon. Winners lived, and losers died.

The ethical component was infiltrated by one or two neural structures, and leaped to them as a lover. Even with the thumb of destiny on the scales of right and wrong, he didn't want to become a Decepticon.

Still, it was the logical decision, and Prowl was, saw himself as, a logical mech.

DAY ONE

Outside Iacon, it was relatively easy to find the Decepticons. They had a large, a very large, bivouac set up to one side of the main city gates, those facing east. What had to be the camp followers - the high-grade vendors, the mecha and femme of Negotiable Affection, the specialized armorers - were following the camp in a comet's-tail arrangement: those with the money to bribe the camp guards closest to the gate, the poorer vendors and their poorer goods farther away. The Negotiably Affectionate held the outermost areas; those most willing to resort to violence, or who had protectors, were closest to the bivouac. The less desirable, those of the aging who had not started their own houses, and the unpimped were relegated to the edges.

Strung through the whole thing like odd beads in a necklace were the mid- and high-grade sellers. Most didn't bother with places to drink what they sold, and most purchasers imbibed while rambling. Prowl found shelter in the lee of a large tent, and got out of traffic flow while he drank a cube or two of the six of mid-grade he'd bought. The others he subspaced.

When he was finished, he joined the flow of mecha through the space.

"Punch daggers! Got some nice punch daggers!" yowled a small mech, whose stall bore the name "Swindle's Goodes." He had three or four of them out on velvet in front of him.

"May I?" Prowl said, picking one up.

"Sure, mech," said Swindle, if this was he. "Never ask a customer t'buy unseen. Got a board over there if y'wanna test its balance, though it ain't got no flight characteristics."

Prowl nodded, threw it anyway. It flew true for a punch-dagger, and the vendor retrieved it for him.

"You got the mod for this, mech?" Swindle said, taking his credits.

"No. I'll need the glove too."

Swindle, beaming, laid several out. The gloves all had the Decepticon icon on the back.

Prowl looked from that to the vendor. "Got any unmarked ones?" he said.

"No, mech, this's all I got."

"Swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnndle!" bellowed a tall strong mech, striding through the crowd.

"Tell you what, mech," Swindle said, at high speed, subspacing daggers, sign, cash box, board, and merchandise, "you got yourself a glove gratis. G'luck with it, g'bye." The small vendor vanished at speed into the crowd.

Returning to the main area, Prowl looked at a boiling mass of civilians just inside the gates of Iacon. While he watched, a group broke out into the bivouac, and were repulsed into the city by the guards. One Iaconian fell, and did not get up again; he was picked up by some guards, and taken away. A femme broke through and ran after him, arm outstretched, crying, but was beaten to the ground and taken in a different direction.

Prowl wondered if this was what the gates of Praxus had looked like before it fell. He would never know now.

He stayed out of the reach of being defined as "dangerous" for an orn, listening to the sentries talk, trying to get a servo on the culture. Just hanging around.

The next morning, he let the shift change happen before he approached the new sentry.

He did this carefully, palms out, servos up. "Hello," he said in his calmest tone.

The sentry looked him up and down, his arm cannons charging. "Whadda you want?"

Prowl took a deep breath. "I want to join up," he said.

"Yeah?" the sentry snarled. "We ain't takin' just anymech, mech. What kinda skills you got?"

"Armed and unarmed combat, and a battle computer."

The sentry leered. (And smelled bad, Prowl realized. Too long between trips to the washrack. He took a step back.) "So you want me to pass you on up to my corp'ral, right? Gonna cost ya, mech."

Prowl took out a relatively large credit slip, and a cube of the mid-grade he had bought. Holding them too far apart to be grabbed simultaneously, he said, "Which one's your pleasure?"

The sentry debated, then, as Prowl had hoped he might, took the mid-grade.

FORTY BREEM AND TWO MORE BRIBES LATER

Prowl was shown into a large black tent, containing a large black mech.

Megatron looked up from whatever it was he was doing, and nodded to another large mech, this one mostly silver, who rose from his own desk and went to stand behind Megatron. This mech had something like a drawer in the center of his chest. Prowl had not seen that configuration before.

A buzzing began in his ears. A fine time to have the mid-grade finally kick in, he thought. He should have had some plain energon first.

"Good orn," the Lord High Protector said. "Designation Prowl?"

"Yes sir."

"Why are you thinking of joining us?"

"You have the upper hand, sir. It's more likely than not that you will win the war."

"Mm. You have no personal loyalty to me?"

"I have never met you before, sir."

"Mmm." The mech looked at him for a long, long moment, and Prowl found himself hoping that the Autobot camp wasn't too far away. "What's your history, Prowl? Where are you from?"

"Praxus, sir. I've been an Enforcer there my entire working life."

The mecha both looked at him for a long, long moment, and the buzz in his ears increased until Megatron said, "Why didn't you surrender when I broadcast my offer to all Praxian Enforcers?"

"I was on duty at the time, sir. I was not free to do so."

The buzz died back a little. The two mecha exchanged glances, and it was quite obvious that they were comming one another. Then Megatron said, "And you have a battle computer."

"Yes, sir. The upgrade is fairly recent, about six decavorn old."

"Who did the work?"

"It was performed at Checkup's clinic. I believe the surgeon's name was Hook."

There was a moment's very busy silence. Then Megatron said, "And you've fully integrated it?"

"So far as I am aware, sir. I've had no problems with it."

The buzz died. Megatron said, "Welcome to the ranks, Prowl. If you'll wait outside my tent, I'll have someone come for you, and they'll start you on the process of becoming a Decepticon."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

When the tent flap dropped behind him, Soundwave said, "I: have commed med bay. Hook: will choose a subordinate: to install the remote offline switch."

"A little strange that he didn't lie to us during the interview."

"Even stranger: he does not know: who I am: or what I do."

"Is that so?" said Megatron, looking directly at Soundwave, but obviously a million tek away. "Well, our little Enforcer can prove himself on the battlefield first. If he's willing to kill for me, and willing to tell me the truth no matter the cost to himself, we'll see what use we can put that battle computer to."

"A: good plan," Soundwave monotonized. Megatron went back to work at his desk, and Soundwave, after discreetly checking that this was not a trap, did the same.

THE NEXT ORN

Prowl stood to attention in front of his new sergeant's odiferous tent. Too many nights' worth of exhaust had accumulated in it.

The punch bit twice, and the Decepticon insignia was part of his armor. Prowl didn't wince, exactly; he screwed up his faceplates and then relaxed them.

"Congratulations, yer a 'con," said Braceweight, his new commander, and thumped him on the arm.

"Sir, thank you, sir."

"C'mon, we'll get ya yer bunk." Braceweight's gait might have been graceful, years ago, before he got beaten to slag and badly repaired too many times; now it was a sort of rolling lurch. As they went down crooked lines of patched, worn tents, he glanced at Prowl, said, "Most o' these're shared by two mecha. You wanna berth alone, you gotta make it worth my while."

Prowl sighed, and dug his last cube of mid-grade out of subspace.

FORTY BREEM LATER

"Nah, you done good," said Braceweight. "You're th' only one I had assigned ta me went straight through all th' levels o' trainin' in a single day. You might be ready to go with us when we get inta Iacon." He rubbed his scarred knuckles, one of which had recently come into violent contact with Prowl's cheekplate. Prowl, however, had thrown Braceweight with an Enforcer's trick, and pinned him.

"Sir," Prowl said, on the basis that this was always the correct thing to say.

The sparring area was simply a ring enclosed by ropes strung to posts. To get in, you pushed one rope down and the one above it up. The ground had been padded only lightly, and for that reason, both Prowl and Braceweight wore helmets, knee- and -elbow protectors, and spark shields.

Prowl had seen no reason to hold back. Neither had Braceweight, who said in his rotor-mixer-filled-with-small-rocks voice, "So yer last test is to take a drone out. Not down: out. You get th' difference? You ready?"

"Sir, yes sir." Prowl climbed into the ring. He had once shot and killed a mech on duty; he could do this.

He wasn't prepared, when the drone climbed into the ring with the slightly unsteady gait they all had, to face one painted in Escalade's colors.

"Clade?" he said, unbelieving, but that was Clade's unique diagonal chest stripe with the ball at one end of it.

There was no intelligence in the optics, and their light was very dim. Prowl knew it was possible to strip personality components out of the processor, but why? What twisted purpose could that serve?

"Friend o' yours?" drawled Braceweight. "If it was, then give it th' cleanest death you can, recruit. There ain't nothin' left in their processors after Hook gets done with 'em."

Hook. Hook. The one who had done his own surgery. Hook.

Prowl stood paralyzed as the drone lumbered toward him, no recognition of any kind at all left in Clade's optics. Prowl knew Clade did not recognize him as a sparklinghood friend, could not be sure Clade recognized him as another mech.

His friend was not in that processor any longer. He drew the blade he had been assigned, and moved forward.

When it was over, when the thing had stopped twitching and the spew of energon had dwindled to a trickle, then stopped entirely, Braceweight approached. He was about to throw an arm around the new recruit's shoulders when he saw the mech's optics, stopped well short of him, and said very carefully, "Prowl? You done good. Straight through the spark casin', so it din't – "

"He. Not it. He." Prowl's sword, dripping energon, was still out, point quivering, although he stood over the body with his head bowed.

"Sorry, sorry," Braceweight said hastily, "_he_ din't suffer at all." He paused, knowing he was dealing with an armed bomb; it sometimes took some of them this way. A few breem later it seemed safe to say softly, "Come on, let's get the rest of your supplies, an' then you have th' afternoon off. My advice is ta have some high-grade."

Prowl banked the fire Braceweight had seen in his optics, sheathed his sword, and said only, "Thank you, sir."

Banked the fire, didn't extinguish it. Braceweight was grateful that he had put the new recruit into the single berth farthest from his own.

OPTIMUS PRIME'S COLUMN, THIRTEEN TEK FROM IACON

Optimus had learned to be less than surprised when Oversight sent Jazz to report directly to him. The mech swung down from a large flat rock about twenty feet over their heads, and Ironhide gave him a servo on the way down.

They had left the roads two joor ago. The rough country around Iacon meant that they were less marching than hiking; they did not expect to make Iacon before sunfall.

The spy bounced twice on his pedes on landing (_Didn't quite stick that one!_) and said, "Prime, report from Iacon on the fate of the Enforcers and their families."

_Primus. Do I really want to know?_ But what Optimus said aloud was, "Report, please."

"It's only th' femmes an' th' sparklin's who were smelted. All th' adolescent and adult mecha were decorticated, an' are bein' used as drones." Jazz shuddered.

Optimus sighed, but did not break pace. "Thank you, Jazz," he said.

Ironhide waited until the young spy had returned to Oversight, and said to Prime, "It just keeps gettin' worse an' worse, don't it?"

Prime ran a servo over his faceplates. "Yes. Yes, it does."

THE NEXT ORN

Prowl got off a shot and didn't stay around to see if it hit, which was a good thing as return fire zinged stone chips off the building whose corner he'd taken shelter behind.

Iacon in its death throes was an unholy mix of flames on the top stories of every sizeable building from Seeker strikes, and hand-to-hand fighting in the streets. The building in whose lee he was currently sheltering was a raging inferno on its top floors, and Prowl was beginning to feel the heat on his armor.

Since the rising of the sun this morning, he had found himself aiming for joints between the armor plates rather than spark casings: to wound, not to kill.

He'd seen no civilians at all so far. Had they been evacuated? If so, good.

Braceweight commed his squad, ::_See th' buildin' up ahead with th' square top? S' our next objective. In yer own time, fellas._::

There were no femmes in Megatron's army.

Prowl squatted and snapped off a shot. Return fire came at about the height of his own spark casing, but now he had the shooter's location. He pulled a stun grenade out of his subspace, pulled the pin, overhanded it right next to the shooter, and scrambled after the rest of his squad without waiting to see its effects.

His battle computer, for some reason, applauded the choice of stun rather than frag grenade. Surely that wasn't logical, Prowl thought, running to the next cover. But then another shot took chips off the facade next to him, just below the large brass sign on one polished stone tower that said "Pediatrics," and, dodging inside the ground floor area, he forgot about logic in favor of locating the next shooter.

TWENTY BREEM LATER

::_Oversight? I got civilians here, with sparklin's._::

::_Roger that, Jazz. Stay put. On our way._::

The medical college in Iacon had taken Seeker fire and some of the larger buildings were aflame. The coneheads made a second run with pyrogenics that melted and dripped flame down into the basement of a building, whereupon it was toast.

The pediatrics ward building was smaller than those which had been hit, and still intact. Jazz had found a parent and her two sparklings in a broom closet there, the sparklings clinging to their carrier and screaming, the femme with a light in her eyes that made Jazz extremely unwilling to move quickly around her.

"Come on," he said gently, holding out his hand. "We need ta get you outta here."

The Autobots, at cost to themselves, were keeping a passage open to the south gate of Iacon. The city had neither northern nor western gates, sitting as it did in the encircling arm of a mountain; the Decepticons, figuring out that the 'bots were getting civilians out, had targeted the southern end of the city mercilessly. Many of the sprawled frames on the pavement here had no sigil at all, not of the 'bots, not of the 'cons, and not of the medical college. Everyday Cybertronians, going about a life that had ended in the middle of a war.

Jazz took the older sparkling, yellow and black, a Praxian doorwing model as all three of them were, and parked him astride one hip, using the other hand to assist the femme.

"There, there," he said to the children, or their mother, or all three at once. "Come on, we'll get out of here. There are people waitin' to get you outta the city."

"I ... don't know what we'll do after that," the femme said. "Our home, my job, was here."

"What didja do?" Jazz actually didn't care, but talking about her former life might keep the femme on this side of sanity.

"I was a medical secretary at the college," she answered. "My bonded is a doctor there. We came to have lunch with him."

"We're gettin' the college personnel out too," he said, praying it was true. "Let's go down this staircase instead'a tryin' an elevator. They stop, you're stuck."

"Jazz!" boomed a vocalizer the saboteur knew all too well. "You in here?"

"Yeah, 'Hide, comin' down the stairs."

"Best get a move on! Th' coneheads are comin' back with buildin' killers."

They picked up the pace. They were within two floors of the ground when the building shuddered to heavy hits, three at once all on the same side, and came down around them.

FIVE BREEM LATER

Prowl came to under a heavy beam, in the rubble of the last Medical College building he had passed.

When his processor cleared enough to assess his situation, he found the beam to be the least of his worries. Rebar had punctured his shoulder, fortunately missing the large energon line that serviced his left arm, but shattering his shoulder-strut on its way through and pinning him to the ground. His rifle had been crushed by the beam, which cleared him by a micro-tek or two. He could respire, but he couldn't take a deep inspiration: the beam compressed his chest very slightly, but hadn't broken any ventilation struts.

Someone shouted a name. He made the loudest noise he could in response.

A sparkling was crying nearby.

He must be delirious. Who would let a sparkling out in the middle of a war zone?

The beam shifted, the rebar was withdrawn, and there was a mighty roar around him as more dust and more debris rained down. The beam shifted again, more slightly this time; the sparkling screamed at the top of his or her lungs, and a shock ran right through the Praxian. Prowl began to wriggle himself free; he couldn't leave a sparkling unattended in this mess ...

He couldn't use the arm to support himself, either. He did a sort of three-point crawl toward the sparkling, never in a straight line, skirting debris, homing in through his audials. Thick dust clouded the air, and Prowl could barely see his servo in front of his faceplates.

When he found the little one, a small graceful mech, Autobot sigil, lay moaning, half-conscious, curled around the wailing sparkling. A large cube of building material lay touching one arm. The sparkling was frightened but seemed unhurt; obviously, the Autobot had been protecting the child. Beyond them, a femme and another sparkling lay dead in the ruins, energon in a wide pool around them.

A large black mech, Autobot sigil again, staggered upright, and came toward them. Prowl heard his cannons charge, and said, "There's a sparkling here, and I'm in bad shape. I'm no threat to you."

"Put yer servos up!"

"I can only raise one," Prowl said, and did.

The other swiftly disarmed him, finding even the punch dagger. Prowl, on his knees and one hand, kept still and let him; given his level of damage, the battle computer said, that was the best strategy. He wasn't quite prepared for the other to push him down, pin him, and disconnect his comms, but ... it didn't seem to matter.

The sparkling crawled over to Prowl just after the mech had stasis-cuffed his uninjured wrist to the other ankle and gone to his comrade, and curled up in his lap, which startled the Praxian considerably. But then, he was the same basic model as the sparkling, who needed comfort more than anything, and whatever else Prowl was, a coldsparked mech was not it. He couldn't hold on to the kid like that, so he put his helm down onto the sparkling's, and hummed a nursery song. The child began to quiet.

The other mech woke up, and there was a quiet conversation between the two Autobots. The larger black mech crawled back to Prowl.

"You gimme yer word you won't try to escape?"

"I give you my parole, sir."

"Good." The stasis cuff around his wrist was removed, and refastened above its fellow, on his ankle. He put the arm around the sparkling, who wrapped himself even more closely around Prowl, sobbed twice, and fell silent. Prowl couldn't tell whether or not he was asleep.

"How bad you wounded?" the Autobot said.

"Rebar pierced my shoulder through-and-though, shattered the strut."

"Lemme see."

The black mech's big hands were fast and rough in doing field repair, but the pain diminished, and the steady ooze of energon down Prowl's chest and belly plates lessened, then stopped. "I'm Ironhide," the mech said, servos still busy. "That's Jazz. What's yer designation, 'con?"

"Prowl."

"Little one asleep?"

"I don't know."

"You okay just holdin' him fer a while?"

"Could you help me lay down while I do that?"

"Yuh. Here."

His hands were strong and his EM field calm, which was reassuring to both Prowl and the sparkling. Once Prowl lay flat, the sparkling curled up in one arm against his chest, and Ironhide unsubspaced a therm-reg blanket to float down over them. He returned to his fellow Autobot; Prowl, optics closed, sliding into recharge, heard him say, "That's a rookie mistake!" and the lighter voice of Jazz replying ...

TWENTY BREEM LATER

Ironhide picked up Jazz and carried him across their dusty little prison, laying him down beside the 'con and the child, and got the blanket over all three of them. Jazz, who had forgotten to subspace his own blanket before the march, had broken both upper-arm struts when struck by a beam while shielding the sparkling from falling debris, and considerably worsened the original damage when he had avoided falling on the child from that injury. Ironhide himself had some dings and scrapes, but nothing like the other two.

He explored their prison, a half-dome bounded on every side by rubble, some of it quite sharp and dangerous, all of it beyond his strength to move. When he did push against the single solid surface he found, that wall creaked and juddered for a good distance on either side of him.

Ironhide sighed, and sat cross-legged on the floor dust-covered, rubble-strewn floor. He commed once more, and once more got no reply. He was too far away from Ratchet or Prime to use the cohort bond; he could only sense that neither had been injured, not the direction they were.

They'd come for the two of them, he knew, if they could. He went into recharge.


	4. Chapter 4

A "redshirt," of course, is the low-level _Star Trek_ character, often nameless, who is killed before we learn any part of his, rarely her, own story.

* * *

><p>FOUR JOOR LATER<p>

Prowl woke to the sound of the sparkling crying, and the warm presence of another body along his spinal struts, not quite in contact with his injury.

"Hey, little one," he said softly. "Hey, what's the matter?"

"Prob'ly hungry," said Ironhide, who had also roused at the sound. "Lemme check to see if Mama carried supplies."

The one named Jazz continued to sleep. Nice face, Prowl thought. But he had other things on his mind, and did not pursue that thought.

Ironhide returned with a bag he was careful not to allow the child to see: it was soaked in his carrier's energon. It proved to contain two bottles and a cloth, which the child seized eagerly, once he had dispensed with half the contents of a bottle. He held it next to his face, and settled back into Prowl's encircling arm, chirring contentedly.

Once the little one was once again asleep, Prowl said, "I have two cubes in my subspace. If I open it, will you get them out?"

"Yuh. We've each got two, as well, so we got six total, an' th' little guy's got another bottle. Wonder if he can tolerate low-grade yet."

"Mix it with what he's got left. Your comrade's hurt pretty bad, isn't he."

"Yeah, he is."

"He's top priority, then. Him and the sparkling."

Ironhide stirred, and Prowl, still lying down, felt the blue eyes fix on him. "You been a 'con long?"

"Two days. My first battle. Don't I remember your designation from the 'shoot on sight' list?"

"Yeah, you do. I was a 'con for a little bit."

"Why'd you leave?"

"You know what they'll do to Jazz an' me, they'll do to the kid, too. When Megatron instituted that policy, I left."

A long silence ensued. It was so quiet that they could both hear the rubble around them settling down, losing volume as the dust it had freed compacted, allowing larger pieces to move.

That quiet was broken when Prowl said, "No. I didn't know that." He sighed. "When I took my sparring-proficiency tests, the last one was to deactivate a drone, and I don't mean by shutting it down. The drone had been a close friend of mine, a fellow Enforcer in Praxus."

Ironhide rumbled. Then he said, in a normal tone, "You do it?"

"As fast and as clean as possible. At that point, I didn't think they'd let me walk away. And whatever they'd done to him, it ... couldn't be fixed."

"Yuh," said Ironhide, both acquiescing to Prowl's assessment of the situation and agreeing with him - Ironhide knew, beyond doubt, that he'd have done the same thing. He said, "Why'd you become a 'con?"

"My battle computer gives the Autobots very long odds of winning. It's already almost impossible."

"You have a battle computer? Pit, mech, come and work for us. You'll turn it around."

Prowl's battle computer whispered that this would be so, be so, be so ...

The neural pathways had by now grown through all of the ethical component, linking it forever to the battle computer, and the rest of Prowl's processor as well. The component had accepted these links, and bound itself to him. He had been upright and honorable before, but Prowl was now an ethical mech down to his core programming.

Therefore he said, "I can't pretend that what they did to Escalade was all right. They probably killed my sparker and my carrier as well."

"Your sparker, he an Enforcer too?"

"Yes."

"He might be a drone then. Means he ain't your sparker no more, any more'n yer friend was still yer friend."

Prowl put his head back against a handy piece of rubble, and sighed.

"What'll you do if they're the first ones to find us, Prowl?"

"If you let me have my rifle back, I'll go down fighting them."

Ironhide rumbled, but said only, "Look. I gotta get some recharge. If I leave Jazz' pain meds with you, can you give them to him?"

"If I can get his wrist port open, yes."

Ironhide shrugged, and popped Jazz' wrist port before he lay down, handing Prowl the meds.

NEXT ORN

Jazz woke while Ironhide was in recharge. Prowl, one-handed, got him the meds, and a quarter of the remaining energon.

Jazz said suddenly, "Yer awful pretty. Always did like them Praxian door-wing models."

Prowl's audial fins got red. "I think those meds might have hit."

Jazz giggled. "Sure they did. Doesn't mean I'm wrong though. Ain't you th' mech who helped me pull survivors outta that 'con killing field, back in Iacon? An Enforcer?"

Despite himself, Prowl was impressed. Usually nobot saw beyond the armband. "That was me, yes. Designation Prowl."

"Designation Jazz. But you knew that. Thought you was pretty then." The Autobot was becoming heavy-lidded. "How'd you escape the 'cons' Enforcer trap there, Prowl?"

"Luck. I was on duty, and wasn't free to respond."

"You would have?"

"I don't think so."

Whatever else Jazz might have been going to say, all he got out was, "You was awful brave helpin' us out there, gorgeous. Thaaaa ..."

The meds took him, and he fell silent.

TWO ORN LATER

Prowl said to Ironhide, "Look. You need the energon to feed the kid. I'm going to go into stasis lock, unless you have a better idea."

Ironhide, who didn't, and had set aside four rounds to prevent all of them from falling into the hands of the 'cons, said, "I've already shut Jazz down. Give me a couple more joor, willya, so that th' little one will accept me? He still ain't quite sure I'm trustworthy."

"All right." Prowl put his head back; the pain, a backdrop to this part of his life, rearranged itself a bit, but didn't go away. "It's too bad he isn't old enough to tell us his name."

"About that," said Ironhide, and unsubspaced a set of documents. "This's his birth certificate."

The flow of her life's energon had blotted out the child's carrier's name, and washed through the sparker's as well. The area containing his own was free of it, however: he had been called after the small flying drones which serviced public crystal gardens. "Name's 'Bumblebee.'"

"You start using it, then. Here, you have the blankie." The sodden and distasteful object was passed across to Ironhide from the sleeping child's grip. "Wonder if he'd let you hold him when he wakes up."

"I'll offer him the bottle, see where it gets us. You in any pain?"

"Nothing major. And Jazz needs whatever painkillers you – oh, you said you stasis-locked him." He really was in a lot of pain, Prowl realized, to have forgotten that.

"Yuh. Want a pain chip?" Ironhide didn't read minds, but he'd been around injured mecha often enough, and long enough, to read the signs.

"Please."

Ironhide supported the damaged arm, moving it very carefully to achieve this, and inserted the pain chip into the wrist port. Every single thing that was wrong inside Prowl's armor went away. "Oh, that's nice," the Praxian said, relaxing.

Ironhide grinned. Been there a time or six himself. "Yuh. Look, I set aside four rounds, one for each of us, in case the 'cons get here first. That what you want, or should I take it down to three?"

Prowl set the battle computer on it. Finally he said, "I have some options neither of you do, since they don't know I've defected yet. I might be able to get away before the next battle, or take out a bunch of them from inside. Take it down to three."

Bumblebee woke.

"Hey, 'Bee," Ironhide said. He got a bottle from the bag, and said, "Here ya go. This what you want?"

Bee accepted his bottle from Ironhide, although he kept a wary eye on the mech while ingesting it. That done, the sparkling toddled to Prowl, and leaned up against his injured arm, which popped the fractured shoulder strut out.

Prowl's extremities grayed with the shock, and he curled his other arm around the little one. "Come on over here, Bee," he said, but Bee wanted his comfort to come from the left and not the right, and resisted. Ironhide gently detached him, and began to play upsa-daisy with the tiny mechling, who was startled at first but then fell under the spell of anti-gravity. He began to laugh and smile, and on being held close to Ironhide's face, patted both his cheeks and chirred enthusiastically.

"Do you have sparklings of your own?" Prowl said, once the white-hot haze of pain had cooled a bit.

"No, not my own. I'm th' eldest of seven. Way it worked was my carrier raised me and my twin sisters, and we raised th' rest of 'em after she died." Ironhide chuckled at Bee, who squealed and giggled back. "I like sparklin's, anyway, always have. Wait until you meet Ratchet, little Bee, he's going to adore you."

"Ratchet. He's your medic."

"Yeah." Ironhide placed Bumblebee on his knee, and began to play peekaboo with the sparkling, using his blankie. "He on the shoot-on-sight list too?"

"Yes. –You seem to be getting along with him all right, so I think I'll put myself into stasis lock. Wake me up when they come?"

"You bet. Soon's I know the balloon's goin' up," said Ironhide.

Bee tired himself, and went to sleep on Ironhide's shoulder. Ironhide laid him down gently; next, he reduced the contents of his suicide stash to three rounds.

He hoped the kid's future wouldn't end here. But if that was the best he could do for Bumblebee, he would do it. It wasn't like he'd have a long time afterward to regret it.

JOOR LATER

::_Ironhide._::

Ironhide woke with a snort. ::_Who's that?_::

::_Is that Ironhide?_::

::_Identify yourself._::

There was more, but absent the password Ironhide stopped responding, and hoped like the Pit that he hadn't given them enough time to home in on him. He sent a message on the most heavily-encrypted comm frequency he was privy to: ::_Agent 14X9672 here. The 'cons are tryin' to home in; I got a orphaned sparklin' an' a defector with me, an' Jazz, wounded bad enough he's in stasis lock. Anyone out there_?::

There was no answer. He dismayed, and let himself feel that all the way through his spark, which is what the tough guys must do to remain tough.

He wanted to cry. For himself, for Jazz, for the sparkling. But that would be no help at all, so he put the three shots in his smallest revolver, subspaced it, and charged his cannons.

TWO BREEM LATER, AUTOBOT MAIN CAMP, COMMUNICATIONS

Monitor duty bored Sideswipe. He closed his eyes, put his pedes up, and prepared to play spark-bond redfletch with his twin.

But then, ::_Agent 14X9672 here_,:: the comm whispered, on a rarely-used frequency.

"Ironhide?" the red frontliner said, wonder in his optics and his tone. His pedes hit the floor, he slapped the switch to activate the console, and then hastily pulled the headset back into place. ::_14X9672, we copy. Please use protocol Beta 4-7._::

RUINED BUILDING, IACON

Ironhide scrambled through his processor, found the protocol, obeyed it. It involved cycling through one hundred frequencies in sets of seven for periods just shy of long enough for triangulation, and it required all his attention.

AUTOBOT COMMUNICATIONS

Sideswipe worked up his nerve, and commed Optimus Prime in the middle of his recharge cycle. But with Ironhide gone, there was no 2iC.

RUINED BUILDING, IACON

::_Agent 14X9672_,:: said Optimus Prime's voice, ::_hang on. We're on our way._::

::_Can't be too soon. I hear someone nearby, and I don't think it's you._::

Ironhide considered things, and woke Prowl.

"You still ready to shoot?" he said, when sense had returned to the young 'con's eyes.

"If you're sure who's out there, I'm ready," Prowl said. Ironhide passed him his rifle, and several rounds of ammunition, then surprised him by tossing him a cube.

"Got th' 'bots on th' way, but th' 'cons're closer," Ironhide said over the noise of his cannons charging. "If it's our friends, all well'n good. If not, you might wanna keep a round back fer yerself."

Prowl smiled slightly, and the expression was swiftly gone. "I don't think I could explain this, no," he said, and prosaically removed one round from the rifle.

Ironhide grinned. "No, probably not," he said, and they fell to waiting.

A few breem later, the noises were louder. Ironhide went to the sparkling and, very gently, nudged the little one into stasis lock. "Don't want him wakin' up at th' last minute an' bein' scared," he said gruffly, and sat back down.

Prowl said, "No, nor being frightened by gunfire and crying when the cons're just outside."

"No," said Ironhide, who honestly hadn't thought of that. "'Course not."

They settled back into silence and waiting.

TWO DECI-TEK AWAY AND CLOSING

"Got a reading on who's there?" Optimus said to Ratchet.

Perceptor, who fought like the Pit when cornered, had relieved Sideswipe, so that the frontliner twins could lead the attack to rescue Ironhide and Jazz. No one doubted Percy's courage, but he was too small to be much help on the front lines. Wheeljack, Grapple, Hoist, and the twin warriors surrounded Optimus and his medic.

"Soundwave is about a tek away. A couple of low-level 'cons are ... oh slag, Skywarp's there too."

"Any of the other coneheads?"

"No other Seeker signatures, no."

"Then I say we let Skywarp do the work of shifting debris, then we come in and, ah, displace them."

"Permission to eavesdrop, sir?" said Mirage.

"Good idea. Sideswipe, do you have your slingshot with you?"

"Sir, yes sir," said the 'bot who wasn't allowed to play with it in the _Ark_ any longer.

"At irregular intervals, begin shooting small objects off into the space on the other side of the 'cons, over the dome. That way they'll think Mirage's pedefalls are just more of the same."

"Yessir!" said Sideswipe happily, and Sunstreaker and Mirage exchanged covert grins with one another.

OUTSIDE THE DOME CONFINING FOUR MECHA

There was a grinding noise, and then another. Afterward came a crunching crash, as if someone had, say, teleported the largest heap of building debris they could a short distance, then dropped it.

These being Decepticons, one voice said, "Hey, you conehead! Will you watch where you're droppin' that!" and another snarled back, "Why don't you get out of the way, groundpounder!"

Then, mysteriously, faint _thwa-bomp_ noises began to sound at irregular intervals.

"The slag's that?" said the "conehead" voice.

"Debris fallin' outta th' ceilin'. C'mon, 'Warp, I wanna get back inta my nice warm berth."

Grind, grind, crunch-crash.

"Pit, Seeker! Watch it!"

"Oh?" said the "groundpounder" voice. "You wanna be up all night shovelin' this stuff? Then why don't you shuddup."

Light did not begin to come from the direction of the voices so much as less intense darkness. Both mecha who were aware inside the dome checked their rifles, and waited.

Optimus, outside it, silently gestured one twin left and the other right. Ratchet was on his six.

Ratchet, while not frontline troops, was about as dangerous as anyone could wish when it came to defending his patients. He understood that he had three in there.

Fine. There were more than three 'cons out here. He'd get some fun out of it before he had to put the doctor hat back on.

Mirage relayed the 'cons' positions. Skywarp, of course, was nearest the dome, busily excavating chunks out of it. A Decepticon with a sergeant's armband was to his right, and two more, not known by paint job, were behind them.

Optimus' busy servo digits told them the story. He would fire on Skywarp, the frontliners were to take out the Transformer redshirts, and Mirage would nail the sergeant. Anyone who needed a second shot would take it. They were not to fire into the dome.

Skywarp teleported the last of the debris, and a large hole manifested itself in the dome. The sergeant stepped inside it, rifle raised, and snarled, "Got you now, traitor!" just as Ironhide fired at Skywarp, Prowl shot Braceweight right through the spark casing, the redshirts dropped, and Prowl, Optimus, and Mirage all nailed Skywarp as well.

Ratchet simply stasis-cuffed the Seeker and staunched the flow of energon, then ducked into the teepee of debris to get to his patients.

The entire building began to quiver. Ratchet leapt to get the sparkling, Ironhide scooped up Jazz, and Prowl made it as far as the opening, where Sideswipe said courteously, "Excuse me," plucked the Decepticon off the floor into his arms, and then all the Autobots ran like the Pit pursued them.

They turned once beyond reach of the destruction, and watched as the building swallowed itself, an ever-growing cloud of dust seeming to gulp down walkways and windows and walls and ceilings, and finally, the bared and accusatory fingers of stripped girders falling into the roiling dust.

"'Hide," Optimus said, when the thunder died down, "you and our guests, in my cab. Jazz and Ratchet, and anyone else you need, Ratchet, in my trailer. Everyone else, you'll transform and roll out. Sideswipe, lead; Sunny, on my six."

AN INDEFINITE PERIOD LATER

Prowl woke to the sounds of medical monitors all around him, and a happily chirring sparkling sitting beside him on a medical berth.

"Bumblebee?" he said, a bit muzzily. The sparkling made a noise like "Chirr-eek!" and threw himself into Prowl's collar struts. Before he recalled that he'd damaged one of them, his arms went around the little one: then he remembered, and braced for a pain which didn't come.

"Well, hello," said a rough voice on his other side.

Prowl turned his head to see Ironhide, and blinked. "Hello," he said. "We made it? Or did we get sent to the Pit together?"

The large black mech chuckled. "No, we made it," he said. "Don't you remember shootin' that sergeant? That was a plumb pretty piece o' marksmanship."

Prowl did remember, and didn't like it. Hard enough to shoot perfect strangers. "Braceweight. My CO."

"Was he? Well, mech, when you change sides, I gotta say you do it thorough. When Bee's ready to get unstuck, Ratchet, our medic, 's gonna talk to ya. Kid's been in ta see ya every day."

The sparkling proved limpet-like for a few minutes more. Prowl was tiring again by the time Bumblebee was ready to let go, and be set onto Ironhide's shoulders. Even then, he pointed at Prowl and made an imperious "Chirr-UP!" noise.

"Yes, yes, you'll see him again," Ratchet said, bustling in. "He'll be here."

"Yup. So we'll go home now, and have a blankie an' a bottle?"

Bumblebee chirred happily in agreement, and banged both of Ironhide's audials simultaneously.

"Ouch!" the big black one said, walking toward the exit. "Tol'ja, Bee, no audials!"

"I want video of you having your blankie and bottle with him!" Ratchet called.

"Slag you!" trailed back.

Grinning, Ratchet turned to Prowl. "Welcome to the Autobots, the most mature forces contesting the Decepticons _anywhere_," the medic said. "I have some information and a cube of energon for you, if you're up for it."

Prowl grinned, took the energon, and since he felt marginally more awake after that, sat up on the edge of the berth.

The medic watched him, with those assessing eyes of medics everywhere. "That feel all right?" he said, when Prowl finally made it to vertical.

"Bit of a processor ache, and some swimminess. Arm aches, shoulder strut too, but it's that new-weld feel."

"If the processor ache and the swim don't fade, let me know. Can you remember what I'm going to tell you?"

"Yes."

"All right. First of all, your status is enemy prisoner of war. That'll change, but for right now you will either stay on that berth unless you have my explicit permission to get off it, or you'll have to be chained to it. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Next up: when I cleaned up your shoulder, I also had a look at your processor. How old's that battle computer?"

"Have I been out long?"

"Two orn."

"Six decaorn, then."

"Were you aware that it was installed without having the ethical component connected?"

Prowl felt the world slide out from under him, and the medic caught him as he swayed. Ratchet said, browplates down, "That the swimminess?"

Prowl straightened, said, "No. No, just - surprise. I thought it was a standard install; that's what the contract called for."

"Mmm. Paid for it yourself, did you? Who did the work?"

"It was done in a charity medic's clinic - Checkup's. I'd have to look at the records to see who did the actual surgery; that wasn't specified in the contract, as Checkup was a general practitioner, not a processor specialist."

"Oh, I can tell you that. That would have been a Decepticon engineer named Hook. Checkup taught him some medical skills; the 'cons can't attract competent medics. Hook deliberately omitted attaching the ethical component, as we know he's been instructed to do by Megatron whenever an Enforcer gets any kind of processor upgrade. But the interesting thing is, your own processor has linked to it, and made connections."

Prowl blinked. "So - you won't need to go in and re-connect it?"

"If I do that," Ratchet said, letting go of Prowl, who was wobblier than either would have liked, "the new-made connections, which are more extensive, will wither in favor of the hard-wired, which are faster. Both will serve, but the upshot is that you'll be more involved with the ethics of a course of action if we let the natural connections flourish. If we opt to make the mechanical connections, you gain some speed of decision."

Prowl's brows knit. "How long do I have to make that decision?" he said.

Ratchet shrugged. "Two deca-orn, I'd say. After that the new connections will be so extensive I'd advise against the surgery."

"For now, I'll stick with this. Have you any tests to help me see how much speed I'll lose?"

"Our Science Division may have," Ratchet said. "I'll ask them." He kindly did not inform his patient how often said Science Division's science went boom or fizzle, because Wheeljack and Perceptor did not _always _explode things. And really, there wasn't much chance of them causing this new recruit to boom or fizzle - was there?

It didn't occur to him that perhaps "boom or fizzle" might translate to "fritz," when you moved from the physical sciences to neurology.

The medic said briskly, reaching the end of his mental checklist, "And the last piece of information I have for you is that Optimus Prime will be by to talk to you in about two joor. I suggest you sleep, if you can. I know it's relatively noisy in here."

Prowl grinned. "Not compared to a Decepticon camp, it isn't."

"Good enough, then. Anything else I can do for you?"

Prowl rubbed at the new insignia on his chest. "Can I get this thing off?"

"When was it put on? And how?"

"Three - no, five - orn ago. It was punched through."

Ratchet ran his sensitive fingers over the emblem, let his hand drop, and, unnervingly enough, watched Prowl's medical monitors for a moment or two. "It seems to have settled in, and the injuries are about half-healed. I don't want to put you offline again just now, so soon after your other surgery, and it would hurt like the Pit to carve the thing out with only a local in place. Put up with it for a day or two, and we'll get rid of it before you're out of here."

"All right."

"Is there anything else you need right now?"

"No, I'm fine."

Ratchet helped him to lie back down.

"Thank you," Prowl said.

Ratchet looked unnerved (_no_bot said thank you!), then nodded, and moved off.

He hadn't told Prowl he had monitor drones all over himself; he usually didn't tell Optimus that when it was necessary, either. But the damage to Prowl's shoulder might have shunted necessary energon flow away from the new processor, causing damage that would have to be addressed very quickly if it occurred, and Ratchet didn't take unnecessary chances with his patients.

With himself, on the battlefield? He didn't think of those as "chances."


	5. Chapter 5

THREE JOOR LATER

Prowl had set himself to rouse after two joor fifty breem, knowing that was enough time for a full recharge cycle (a "darkorn's recharge" for most Cybertronians consisted of three to five cycles. Cybertronians had in common with humans, or rather would have in common with humans, both upright featherless bipedalism and the basic sleep/recharge cycle structure. Who knew).

Optics still shuttered, and with no real urge to wake fully, Prowl could hear a conversation taking place, not nearby, but relatively close: the words indistinguishable, the voices rising and falling in amicable discourse.

The other small noises of the medical bay had fallen to silence, excepting those of his own monitors.

He stretched, and yawned, and simply idled for a time, not even listening to the muted, far-off conversation, until the sound of his own name yanked him to full awareness.

"– chose to allow the stronger links to the ethical component of his processor, which means that ethics were an active concern for him before the installation. He's been awake now for a short period. I'll see if he's up again."

"Don't wake him on my account," said a deep, pleasant voice.

"All right." Footsteps approached. "Prowl, it's Ratchet. You with us?"

"Yes," the Praxian said, on a yawn.

The lights in med bay came up slowly, as Ratchet and a very large mech approached Prowl's berth.

Ratchet said, "Optimus Prime, Prowl of Praxus. Prowl, Optimus Prime."

"Sir," Prowl said, and sat up with Ratchet's help, less swimmy this time, he was glad to note. Ratchet stood behind the Prime, a step or two away in case of trouble.

That was wise. Ratchet too had been on the 'cons "Shoot on Sight" list, with the addendum "Extremely dangerous" attached to his name. If Prowl were a sleeper - he didn't think he was, but the point with Soundwave was that you did not know you had been made into one - he would not be able to carry out an assassination with the dangerous Ratchet so close by.

Perhaps it was just as well that the Prime wasn't privy to these thoughts of Prowl's. He smiled pleasantly, and said, "Just 'Optimus,' please. It's my understanding that you wish to defect from the Decepticons."

"Yes, si- Optimus, that's correct."

The tall mech drew a chair to his bedside, and sat; Ratchet remained standing to his right, and a little to the rear of the chair. "If you have the energy," Optimus said, "I'd like to know how you came to be a Decepticon, and why you've decided to leave them."

Prowl exhaled, glad that the medbay was empty, except for himself and these two. Bad enough to have to lay your spark bare to a perfect stranger. Although the Prime's bearing and energy were both - supportive? Was that the word he wanted? Well, he was the Bearer of the Matrix, unique among their race because of it.

Prowl took a deep breath, and said, "I felt no need to choose between factions until my battle computer was installed, and Praxus fell, although as a citizen I'd been disgusted for some time by the Senate's more - egregious - excesses."

Optimus nodded slowly. "Call it what it was," he said. "Feeding at the public trough, to the detriment of the citizens of Cybertron. I was slow to call them on that, slow to believe what I saw."

Prowl nodded. "They presented it so credibly that no one protested for far too long. Even when they began to, I was an Enforcer of Praxus, Optimus, and it served me best to set politics aside when I was dealing with the public. Autobot, Decepticon, or neutral, I had to treat the all according to the tenets of the law. I found it best to remain only peripherally aware of the politics of the time. But when I calculated the chance of your success against those of Megatron using the new battle computer, it returned long odds against you. I wanted to survive the war, so joining the Decepticons made more sense."

The Prime looked at him with an expression Prowl would come to know well. It said, "That's so logical it's completely insane." But what the big mech himself said was simply, "I see."

Prowl continued, "It was brought home to me that I had made the wrong decision when, as part of my training, I was told to deactivate a drone. Not shut it down, deactivate it. This drone had been my best friend before he was decorticated." Prowl shifted, and broke eye contact, unwilling to let a stranger see his pain. "That was after the Enforcers had been told they could safely surrender to Megatron. Escalade was an honorable mech, and he would have taken them at their word."

Optimus gave him some time. Then he said, very calmly, "What did you plan to do about that offer?"

"It was made while I was on duty, so I didn't have the option to respond."

"What did you decide to do as a result of your encounter with Escalade?"

"It happened the day before Iacon, so I didn't have time to do much planning. I was thinking that perhaps I could simply desert from the battlefield, if it became chaotic enough, or go missing as a sentry. But then I was part of a small squad going into Iacon, and neither opportunity presented itself before the building fell on me."

Prowl wondered if he had just sealed his own fate with those words. But he had taken their energon, and he owed the Decepticons loyalty.

Prime cocked his big head on one side. "And how did you fight that battle before you were trapped?"

"To wound, between the armor plates, instead of to kill, into the spark casing." Prowl looked down. "I made that choice partially because of Escalade, and partly because I had met Jazz. I couldn't be sure I wouldn't meet him again on the battlefield, and in my first skirmish I realized that there was very little time to aim. So I chose always to wound, never to kill. I might have if I'd had no other choice, but I was never put in that position."

"I see." The Prime looked at him for a moment or two, all scratches and new welds around the processor, and that damned insignia proudly front and center on his chest. A 'con. Who might be a 'bot. Optimus wasn't going to make it easy, though; it would not be easy for any of them to trust an ex-'con, so the 'con would have to prove himself first.

And that strategy had worked out exceptionally well with Ironhide, and then with Jazz. "So what swayed you to the Autobots, Prowl?"

"First it was Jazz' actions when the 'cons bombed Iacon Council Center and null-rayed a crowd of Autobot supporters in front of it. He helped me to carry survivors inside, and then treated one who was bleeding. That was after I'd stasis-cuffed him to a pipe, when I found him standing over my superior officer in the Enforcers. She was dead. He was cleared, of course; the knife was 'con make, but had none of his paint on the handle."

"Yes," Optimus said neutrally. "I remember that report. You said that was first?"

"Yes. That spoke better of your forces than the 'cons'. Then I had a conversation with Ironhide while we were trapped together. He said that he had left the 'cons himself when Megatron gave the order to deactivate any sparkling found on the front." Prowl's hands worked; the Praxian didn't notice. "I won't work for or give any assistance to a mech who would take such a step. That's – obscene."

"If you join us, you'll be working against him, but also against those you fought with."

"I had neither friends nor acquaintances within the 'cons, si - Optimus. Just squadmates, and only for a single orn and a single battle. I had neither time nor opportunity to bond with any of them."

"You've no competing loyalties."

"None."

Optimus sighed, and folded his servos around one knee. "I have Ratchet look at every defecting 'con's programming: hack him. It's never been done to me, but I'm told it is not a pleasant procedure. It's required, if you join us after having been a 'con. Are you willing to allow it?"

Prowl blinked. "I thought Ratchet already had; if he needs to do it again, yes I am. It's only logical."

"Logical, perhaps. Necessary, certainly, as we will never have a Soundwave in our ranks."

"Tall mech, with a drawer or something in the middle of his chest?"

"That's Soundwave, yes."

"He was present at my intake interview."

"Was he now," Ratchet said, and hove to beside Prowl's berth.

"Yes. I didn't know that was important?"

"Oh," said Ratchet, with a smile even Optimus was a little frightened of, "it's not critical. But if Soundwave's been in your processor, I'll have Red Alert come in and back me up when I hack you. Soundwave's left nasty little surprises here and there before."

Optimus raised an eyebrow.

"Subtle stuff," Ratchet said, looking from one to the other. "After Sideswipe had been in their clutches once, he couldn't shoot straight with any accuracy. Either he was right on target, or just a critical amount off, and you could never tell which until the bullet was on its way. I finally went into his processor, and Soundwave had done some fairly sophisticated tinkering with his sighting subroutines, linked to a random-number generator. Came up odd, he shot true. Came up even, he didn't. Easily fixed, but you've gotta know it's there. Once when Sunny was wounded, he left a trap specifically for me that almost got me, which is why I use backup now."

"I remember that," Optimus said. "Sides hadn't been with us very long when that happened."

"No. Within his first two vorn here, as I remember." Optimus tilted his head to one side, and addressed Ratchet very directly. "I wonder why it is I don't remember the report concerning Sunny?"

"I don't know," Ratchet said, with perfectly straight faceplates. "Shall I run a processor scan on you when we're done here?"

"Oh, I don't think that will prove to be necessary, Ratchet. Particularly if it doesn't happen again."

Their optics met, and held, and then Ratchet's dropped first. He said, "Well. Ever since then, if a mech tells me Soundwave had at him, I get Red in here to watch over the process. He can pull the plug if he has to."

"On ... whom?" Prowl said.

"Oh, either one of us. Don't worry about that," Ratchet said dismissively. "I'm not talking about permanent offlining, just a quick slap into stasis lock."

"I see," Prowl said. "How will tomorrow go if there are no surprises?"

"Initially, I'll put you under fairly heavy sedation, but you won't be completely out. If I have to go in and remove Soundwave's work, you'll be out for that, all right. Let's hope it won't come to that. Do you remember what he did while you were together?"

"Yes," Prowl said, and did not miss that the medic relaxed slightly at those words. "He stood at Megatron's shoulder, and during the whole interview I had a buzzing in my ears. They obviously commed one another at several points in the conversation."

"But you remember all the time you spent with them."

Prowl accessed his data. "Yes," he said eventually. "There are no time-stamp gaps in those memories."

"That's very good news." Ratchet looked at Prowl, still sitting on his berth, then to Optimus, then back to Prowl. "As I said, I'll give you a sedative before the hacking, although I can't put you completely under for it. We'll do it tomorrow morning, and then, unless we have a Soundwave-occasioned detour, we can plan from those results."

"All right," Prowl said, and to his own embarrassment, yawned. "Sorry."

The Prime rose. "You'll comm me?" he said to the medic.

"Immediately when I've finished."

"Thank you. –Prowl, thank you for talking to me."

"Nice to have met you, Optimus."

The Prime smiled, and turned away. Lights dimmed in the med bay, and Prowl, helped to lie back down by Ratchet, was asleep again in seconds.

But not before he remembered that they had promised him nothing.

NEXT ORN

Prowl had been given that heavy sedative, and then a sedating drip carefully dialed back down to almost nothing, to prepare him for the hacking. This process had generated its usual feeling for Prowl of being stuck in a slow-motion film underwater, when the twin frontliners burst into med bay, one carried, as was often the case, in the other's arms.

Ratchet saw this, and strung together a series of curses so fluent and imaginative that Prowl blinked (very slowly. His reaction time at the moment was approximately that of glacial retreat).

"Sorry, buddy," the medic said, running a last quick eye over the arrangements, "but I've gotta take care of this. You just hang, okay?" He ran up both side rails on the berth with the speedy rasp and clang of long experience, and took off running, pointing and shouting, "That berth, there!"

"Oooookkaaaay," Prowl said, but the medic was already gone.

He was actually too far out of it to check the wall chronometer, his own having been disconnected. All he knew was that time had passed to the accompaniment of repair noises and curses, and the occasional clang of wrench-to-helm impact, when a face suddenly popped into his visual field and a voice he vaguely remembered said, "Hey, Prowl. Howya doin'?"

"'Mooookkaaaay," he said. " ... Jaaazzzz?"

"Th' one an' only. Came by t'see how you was doing, but Ratch's distracted at the moment. I'll check back later."

He prepared to leave, but Prowl said, "You're ... the onnnnne ... said I ... was cuuute," and blinked, very slowly.

Which was, in itself, cute, Jazz realized. "That's me. Still true, even when yer's high as the towers of Iacon." The small black-and-white looked down for a second. "As they used ta be, anyway."

This last was too much for Prowl to cope with; he couldn't, at the moment, even find the signpost that pointed toward Memory Lane, let alone canter down it.

Right now the present was soft and fluffy and he was happy to be here ... wherever "here" was. So he dismissed the statement as irrelevant, and addressed another item on his agenda. "You're ... pretty cuuuuuuuute ... too."

There was another clang of wrench to helm in the background.

Jazz sat back down, a thunderstruck look on his face. "You think so?"

"Yes. I doooooooooooooo." A goofy grin came out of hiding, and camped on Prowl's features.

Another clang, a noise of hasty pedefalls, and a series of rapid statements and questions.

"Well, how about that," Jazz said, a look of wonder on his faceplates. "It's mutual."

"Jazz," said Ratchet, arriving at speed, "get out of my med bay _right now_." Another mech followed him, in red paint.

"Ratchet, this is th' least opportune time in th' history of th' _world_ for you to kick me out."

"Don't care. Do your flirting later. He's not competent to enter any kind of social contract at the moment."

Jazz backed away, servos up and palms out. "Put th' wrench away, Ratch. I'm leavin'." The small mech smiled at Prowl, whose heavy optics were still locked on his face. "I'll see you later, gorgeous, an' we'll talk."

"Oooooooookkkkkkkaaaaaaaaay, cuuuuuuuuuuute onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne," said Prowl.

Even through the heavy haze of the drug, he felt the poke of embarrassment wanting his attention. But Jazz grinned at him before he left, so it went away, clearly knowing when it was unwanted.

Ratchet kicked up the drip a notch - mech shouldn't even be making sense at this point! - took a deep respiration to center himself, strapped Prowl to the berth, and raised all his firewalls. "Red Alert, Prowl of Praxus, Prowl, our Security Director, Red Alert."

Prowl gave Red Alert a grin about half as goofy as the previous one, and said, "Hellllo."

"Hello, Prowl. You ready for this?"

"Yesssss."

"Firewalls up?" Ratchet said to Red Alert. "Okay, here we go." Opening Prowl's chest armor, he began to hack the Praxian.

SEVERAL JOOR LATER

Jazz put his head around the med bay door. "Ratchet? Okay if I come in?"

Ratchet put a tool he had been cleaning down, picked up another, removing flakes of dried energon with a ruby cloth. "Maybe. He's still pretty far out of it, so you can't take anything he says too seriously. And you can stay for maybe ten joor. He's got a ferocious processor ache, and I can't give him anything for it. If he's asleep and you wake him up, it will be an act of great unkindness."

"Understood."

"Congratulations on your promotion." The second tool was laid down, and a third picked up. Jazz didn't even want to think about what Ratchet was patiently scraping out of its crevices.

"Thanks," said the new Head of Special Operations, "but I wish I'd gotten it another way. Oversight was a good mech, an' I'll miss him."

Ratchet held his work up to the light, turned it this way and that, was pleased by the result, and moved on to another tool, even scarier than the last. Metal shavings were stuck in the dried energon, and he picked them out delicately, dropping every one into the recycling bin as he went.

Of course, he dropped the dried flaked energon into a separate recycling container of its own, too. Waste not, want not.

"I will too. And at some point, I'll have Starscream in this med bay, whereupon I shall be able to demonstrate to him how displeased I am by his habit of using null-rays on those who are already down."

"Ratchet," said Jazz, after a long moment, "you scare th' Pit outta me."

"Jazz. In the first place, that's too much a part of your core programming for it to leave you entirely." Jazz grinned. "In the second place, you're a smart mech, and that shows it. Go sit with Prowl. If he isn't awake, hold his servo and just be with him. Patients know, even if they aren't responsive. The first moment he was coherent enough to be understandable, he asked for you."

Jazz hadn't asked Ratchet if Prowl was going to be an Autobot. He knew the medic would refuse to tell him; it wasn't personal. Medical data was medical data, and thereby private even if it pertained to a 'con the Autobots might decline to allow to join them. So he went to Prowl's bedside, and held hands with a mech he hoped, but was not sure, he would see again.

Jazz looked at the medic again, from across the med bay this time. "They're wrong about you bein' mean, you know," he said.

Ratchet snorted. "No they aren't."

NEXT ORN

"So, if he's comin' on board, how we gonna work him into the command staff?" Ironhide said.

"The usual way. Throw him on the ground, see if he hits running." Optimus shrugged. "Since he has a battle computer, I'm going to assign planning non-strategic, as well as battle-based, enterprises to him. You - " the Prime turned to Ratchet and Red Alert - "were sure he has no tag-alongs, nothing to link him back to the 'cons."

"Yes. As well, his experience with them was what he said it was: two orn, the second orn spent on a battlefield as frontline troops. He had minimal contact with them, really, and his impetus for joining them was exactly what he described."

"Which was?" said Red Alert, almost casually. He had been back-up, but it was Ratchet in Prowl's processor.

Ratchet shrugged. "He wanted to survive the war, and joining the 'cons seemed to give him the best chance of doing that."

"Let's hope that his participation will make that decision in our favor easier for others," Prime said. "When will he be out of med bay?"

"Late this orn, or tomorrow morning at the latest. At Red's suggestion, I installed a tag-along without Prowl's knowledge. It has a useful life of two vorn. If he undertakes any planning against us in that period, it's programmed to send the data to Red."

"Good thinking. Let's hope it's an unnecessary precaution. - Send him to my office when you discharge him. When we're done," the Prime said to Jazz, "I'll comm you, and you can get him settled."

"Why is Jazz doing that?" Red Alert asked, not unreasonably. Orienting new recruits was not the sort of thing the Head of Spec Ops was assigned to. Ever. Spec Ops troops were expected to be able to orient themselves, in any situation, so where to berth and where to eat? Those should be simple questions, and any Spec Ops mech who needed help to answer them wasn't going to last long.

And Prowl was not, was never going to be, Special Ops.

But Optimus smiled at Jazz, then transferred his attention back to Red. "Because," Optimus Prime said with that smile deepening, "unless I'm very wrong, I think he'd like to."

Finis


End file.
